


waterproof

by a_stankova



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, Mild Blood, POV Second Person, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 03:25:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_stankova/pseuds/a_stankova
Summary: All Regina has ever wanted is to be happy.





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfic, I hope y'all approve! Will be in two parts, SwanQueen galore in part two.  
> I'm @turtledove_51 on Twitter – let's be friends!

When you are four years old, you are presented with an apple tree, a tall and glorious beauty with fruit more rich and ripe than any other you’d seen before. The sun shines through the leaves and branches, and the shadow it casts eclipses the landscape of the lush gardens that lie at the backdrop of the family manor. You thank your Father and spend the whole first day in its shade, on your back looking up through the arms of the tree that twist and dance in the sunlight. You’re so young and, though it’s hard to know for sure, you suspect this memory will forever be a favourite of yours.

 

(You don’t realise yet that peacefulness is relative, and basking in the shelter of that apple tree keeps out danger worse than sunburn.)

 

You're five when a snake spooks your horse and sends him fleeing through the woods, far away from your Father and your home, far away from your apple tree. You cling to Rocinante's mane—you'll blow away if you let go—and you yell and shout and beg to be saved, comforted only by the wind whipping your hair behind your ears, your stomach soaring up and down inside you, and you think this might be what it feels like to fly, or fall. Nobody comes for you but that’s okay, because Rocinante is a good boy and slows down eventually, returning to a gentle trot. Evidently, you don’t need anyone to save you, but it still would’ve been nice.

 

You're seven when you have your first memorable nightmare, a "terror”, Daddy calls them. Your terror is fraught with fire and boxed-up hearts, beating blacks and reds and whites; some are grey and aren't beating at all. You wake yourself with a scream, a scream you have to stifle when you remember that your parents are sleeping and Mother gets angry if she's disturbed before dawn has broken. So you curl up in uncaring blankets, cold and with cheeks damp as your nightgown, and your little mind wonders: what sort of terror permits young ones a pair of arms to hide in when they are afraid?

 

You're nine when you wander into the kitchens without your usual escort, and find the cook's daughter kissing your governess on the mouth. They don't see you, don't see your little body as you tiptoe around the counters looking for a teapot and your favourite pink and yellow mug. It's perched on a shelf too high for your little arms to reach, so you pull yourself up onto the counter and stretch as far as you can. You miss by a fraction of an inch; your favourite mug smashes on the floor despite you telling it 'no!', and Jenny and the governess separate with a speed you had thought was near impossible. You hear soft crying and can't understand why Jenny is so sad—she never seemed all that taken with your mug. But the day draws to a pleasant close when Jenny says you can have her mug instead, and brings you tea and toast for supper—she even lets you eat it in your bed after she's tucked you in which is exciting. You don’t at all suspect that she’s bribing you. She asks you if you know what a secret is, to which you nod as you bite into your toast. She says that if you promise to keep Amelia a secret, she will answer three questions of yours, for you have forever been an inquisitive child. You ask Jenny 'do you love Amelia?', and Jenny has the sun in her eyes when she tells you that yes, she loves Amelia very much, and loving someone the way she loves Amelia is a very special thing indeed. You ask Jenny 'what does loving someone so much feel like?', and Jenny has the ocean in her eyes when she tells you that it feels like floating, high above the clouds. You have the ocean in your eyes when you ask if loving Amelia means that she can't love you anymore, and Jenny's ocean streams out onto her cheeks and she hugs you tightly and places a sweet kiss onto your little forehead. “Dear child, how could someone not love you?” is Jenny's third and final answer. You brush away her ocean and she encourages you to shake away yours as she bids you a fond goodnight. You dream of horses that night, horses that can fly higher than the mighty height of your apple tree, up amongst the clouds.

 

You're ten when your little feet fail you and you fall down the stairs for the first time. You bleed all over Mother's new rug, and it sets off a fear in you that is worse than the pain. It's the first time she uses magic on you; binds you to your bed with invisible shackles and leaves you crying and cold until long after the bleeding has stopped. You hate it. You hate magic. But you say nothing when Mother finally frees you.

 

You're eleven when you have to watch Mother tear Jenny and Amelia apart. You are wandering alone again, unescorted, just like you were the first time you found out about the couple, when you hear Mother screaming about what's right and wrong and how this kind of love is not right but wrong. Jenny is wailing like a newborn babe and crumpled over Amelia's still body—she looks to be in deep slumber but somewhere in your little mind, you know better. When Mother leaves you rush to be with them, and you grab Amelia's cold hand and pray that Jenny's raspy wet kisses are enough to wake her up. They aren’t, and you wonder if there really is such a thing as true love's kiss.

 

You're almost twelve when you have your worst mind terror yet, where Mother crushed the heart of the man you love right in front of you. Jenny is there with a pair of arms to hide in and you wonder why bad things happen to good people.

You're exactly twelve when Mother locks you in your bedroom, reprimanding you for your excitement. “But it's my name day,” you protest loudly, banging your growing fists against the door, and you remember that Mother probably can't hear you. After all, she hadn't heard Jenny when she had protested that she loved Amelia. You receive a new pink and yellow mug from the cook's daughter and not one thing more. Next year, you say.

 

You're exactly thirteen when you realise that Mother doesn't much care for name days. You lie beneath your beloved tree and watch the apples swaying gently with the leaves and branches in the warm breeze; yes, you think, favourite memories indeed. They’re getting harder and harder to make.

 

You're fourteen and two months when you meet him, the new stable boy. He bows and introduces himself as Daniel, milady, at your service. He smiles at you and your stomach fills with butterflies and you fumble to perform a half a curtsy. You introduce yourself as Gina because for some reason you can't pronounce your full name with him yet. He has the same sun in his eyes that Jenny had when you were nine and ten; you had thought you'd never see such warmth again. It makes you feel rather wonderful.

 

You're fourteen and seven months when Daniel asks if he can kiss you. You have been riding Rocinante alongside him for two of the five months that you have known him, and today he has taken you to Firefly Hill, a place that is truly a wondrous sight to behold at dusk. When he asks if he may kiss you, you feel you may faint with delight. You graciously accept. It's strange to kiss someone, but he tastes like the berry punch you'd been sharing and it slowly becomes an experience that you wish could last forever. It's why you kiss him again almost immediately. He grins and you forget how to breathe and you realise that you aren't little anymore and that this has been the most amazing night of your life.

 

You're fifteen when you have your second most amazing night, when you and your love lie down in the grass beneath the fireflies, and with a melodic whistle, Daniel guides the creatures across the sky to spell out your name in white light. It's the first time you cry from happiness, and the first time he kisses your hair, and the first time he tells you that he loves you. “To the stars and back, Gina,” he promises. “To the stars and back,” you promise in return, with a smile as bright as the stars on which you both swear.

 

You're sixteen when you decide to ask Mother what she would think if, _hypothetically, maybe, for argument’s sake_ , a lady was to marry below her station. Mother blinks–it’s the longest second ever–and then she bursts into a fit of amused laughter. She promptly launches into a spiel about upward trajectories and grand balls and riches and powers galore, and you realise she'll never accept your relationship with Daniel so you force yourself to laugh as you wonder if she ever really cared about you or your happiness.

 

You're eighteen when you save a little girl from her runaway horse, a fair young one with black hair and skin as white as snow. It only makes sense that she be called Snow White. You save her and suddenly you're engaged to the King and you're engaged to Daniel and you're begging Snow White not to tell, exactly as Jenny had begged you when you were that age. But unlike Snow you could hold your little tongue, and you and Daniel don't even make it to Firefly Hill. Just like in your mind terror when you were but twelve, Mother crushes your true love's heart before your eyes and he slips away to the stars, never to come back. You wail like a newborn babe over his body and your kisses aren't enough to wake him, and you wish Jenny would run in and hold you like you'd done her all those years ago. But Jenny had been sent away the day before last, with no explanation, and it wouldn't have mattered anyway because Mother doesn't leave this time. Instead, you're told to dry your tears, straighten your back, and be the gracious lady she's taught you to be since before the first name day you can recall. You have no choice.

 

You're eighteen and one week when the big day arrives, and you've never been so miserable. You're eighteen and one week and one day when the king forces himself upon you, and you regret having never made love with Daniel because maybe then it wouldn't hurt quite so much.

 

You're eighteen and six months when you try to escape. You make it to the edge of the King's lands— _your lands, lands you never wanted_ —and freedom is so close you can almost _taste_ it, like berry punch on your lips. Then berry disappears into something else entirely and Mother's right there to thwart your escape again, with a flick of her wrist. You hate magic.

 

You're nineteen when you decide that you love and hate Snow White. She loves you like you loved Jenny and you love her for it, but when you look into her little eyes you see purity and betrayal and you swear on the stars that one day, she will understand.

 

You're twenty and a half when you meet Rumplestiltskin, a man with a mad laugh who positively brims with talk of magic and vengeance. He seems surprised that you don't want to hurt anyone. He seems surprised that you hate magic. But he perseveres and one day, for the briefest of moments, everything he’s ever told you makes sense. You see Amelia and Jenny and Daniel in the wicked curve of Mother’s grin, and before you know it that fragile cord inside you is snapping and your hands shoot out; it doesn’t matter that there is ten feet between you and her, she flies anyway, back and through a mirror that shatters behind her, leaving no trace.

You say never again, despite the fact it filled your stomach with happy little butterflies. You return to your husband’s bed that night feeling significantly freer than you have done for a year, but you force yourself not to dwell on what that means for your soul.

 

(Snow’s name day is a grand affair and lasts for two weeks – maybe you’re jealous, resentful over your childhood, but the hatred stirring inside you is powerful and it tastes better than the apples from your tree.)

 

You’re almost twenty one when you miss your first magic lesson; you’d rather be alone with your buffet-for-one. Your mentor laughs at your avoidance, compares your fate to that of the swan at your meal, and belittles you to nothing but a vessel for rage. But you don’t jump from your balcony, rather you fall, and you know that Tinkerbell doesn’t believe you but you don’t care. She fast becomes an almost friend, and she shares your disdain of Snow White though you suspect she only does so because she hasn’t met the girl. However, she doesn’t share your views on revenge, rather tells you that love is possible a second time for anyone. Pixie dust guides you across the sky and to a man sporting a lion tattoo, a man you are supposedly destined to be with. But you aren’t Regina and you aren’t a teenager and he isn’t Daniel and so you flee and shut the fairy out. You don’t need friends. You don’t need love. All you need is Snow White’s head on your wall. That’s what true happiness looks like, not some boy with cat inking on his wrist.

 

You're exactly twenty one when you take the throne. Officially speaking. The King is dead and his daughter looks to you for comfort, and you hug her like you care, feign your grief when really you are thankful and unashamedly responsible. You thank the Genie for doing this for you, with false promises of love—the betrayed has become the betrayer, and magic is your friend now, the only one in all the realms you can truly trust. You wait.

 

“The Queen is dead,” you declare to Rumplestiltskin in your twenty-second year. “Long live the Evil Queen.” Snow White gave you the moniker and it's the first time you've belonged since Firefly Hill with your stable boy.

 

You're twenty five when you finally come out on top. Snow White is finally suffering, sucked under by a sleeping curse; finally you can make her understand. She's trapped and she's helpless and vengeance has never felt so magnificent.

No more than two days pass before the princess is awoken by true love's kiss. You're sickened and you aren't upset as much as you are angry, but you retreat to your bed chambers with Amelia and Daniel's bodies in your mind and you cry for a while, asking yourself why why why _your_  kiss hadn't been enough all those years ago, when you'd been kind and sweet and could _keep_ secrets! It’s been raining all day and you’d been outside for some of it, and now you’re wet and cold and you’ve never been more pissed off that you aren’t waterproof. You tears dry eventually (they always do), so you straighten your back, beat yourself into being the gracious lady Mother taught you to be since before the first name day you can recall, and you do the only thing you can do – you start again.

 

You're twenty six when your mind terrors restart, for the first time in almost a decade. You dream of a little boy with a cheeky grin and a warm heart, and somewhere in the background is a woman, with hair made of stardust. Suddenly the picture of happiness shifts, looks a little different. 

 

You're twenty-eight when your prayers are finally, _finally_ answered. With Rumplestiltskin's tutoring, you succeed in casting a glorious curse that rips the joy from everyone in the land and plunges them into another. You can't stop the Charmings from sneaking their newborn away but it doesn't matter. Freedom is in your mouth, all magic and berries, and no-one can stop you this time.


	2. two.

The picture of happiness had never quite been shaped like this, but nonetheless, it’s what you wanted, what you fought for, what you killed for.

 

And it’s good enough, it’s perfect even, for the longest time, until eventually it begins to feel like Groundhog Day, and you grow bored with the same walk to work, the same interactions with Snow and Jiminy Cricket. Hell you even get tired of seeing Ruby, whom you strategically placed in your day at the exact moment she would bend over and give you the most tantalising view of her ass. There’s nothing stopping you from taking her as your lover — you’ve caught her staring at your legs enough times to know she’d be into it — and you need something to break up the monotony of the day.

But, no, you decide. You like Ruby, and you know you’d only end up hurting her if you brought her into your bed.

You choose Graham instead.

 

In the sixteenth year of the curse, you realize that the curse alone is not enough. You endeavour to find the boy you dreamed of, and you succeed two years later. He cries and cries and cries and only stops when you sing to him. You wonder if you were ever like this, ever this restless, but then you remember, Mother always hated it when you cried. You can’t be like her, you can’t ever be like her. You have to be better.

 

And you are. You are kind, and gentle; you soothe his fevers, endure his tantrums, teach him to embrace things rather than to fear them. In the twenty first year of the curse, the boy grins up at you and whispers, “I love you, Mommy.” He makes this promise almost every day for the next six years, and every time he does, you bring him close, hold tight because he’ll never understand just how much you love him, too. You can hear your heart beating, strong for the first time in years, and you think you might be healing at last.

 

In the twenty eighth year of the curse, she wishes to not be alone on her birthday, and your perfect little world begins to crumble. The boy tells you he hates you and disappears, and you look everywhere, call everyone, cry and smash things and blame yourself.

The Gods take pity on you and the boy comes back, but he brings a woman with him. She might have been sent by the Gods, too – she is beyond beautiful, wears a jacket that is arrestingly red, the colour of a revolution. But this is wrong, all wrong, because she’s his mother, his _mother_ and she’s come back and _this can’t be happening._

Your face betrays none of your panic – you smile, invite her in, hand her a glass of apple cider. She promises she isn’t a threat, promises she’s leaving, but you get the feeling that the universe is about to be tilted on its axis. In bed that night, you can’t shake the memory of her eyes, green as seaglass.

 

She doesn’t leave, and you fight for control. She is infuriating, and presumptuous, and a bad influence on Henry but also on you – you’ve never been challenged like this, never been pushed so far. You give as good as you get.

When she comes for your beloved apple tree, you’re overcome with rage, and she taunts you, steps into your space and dares you to make a move. You’re torn between slapping her and kissing her.

 

You like her, but you are not supposed to like her. Therefore you hate her.

 

She is hard to hate sometimes.

 

When everything comes undone, and your curse shatters, you’re alone. Your son, your beautiful baby boy, had nearly died. You nearly killed him, but Emma Swan had saved him, like she’d always been going to.

You’d been foolish to think you could be happy. Foolish to think that your son would forgive you, that Emma Swan could feel anything for you other than disgust.

You lie on Henry’s bed and sob into his pillow, sob for him, for Daniel, for Jenny and Amelia and your father. Maybe this is your true curse – to lose everyone.

The mattress dips behind you and you don’t even flinch, not even when an arm slides over your waist and brings you close. You cry harder, squeeze your eyes shut and tell yourself that this is real, that she’s really here, that she came for you after all.

You don’t believe it, not really, until her lips touch your shoulder, gentle and assuring, and suddenly you can feel the fire she radiates. You turn your head and she meets you in the middle, kisses you soft and salty, your faces wet and hot. She kisses you like you’re the most important thing in the world, and she doesn’t stop until your eyes have dried.

You need to talk to her, to explain, to stop this, whatever this is, but when she crawls on top of you and buries her face in your neck, you find you can’t say anything. You hold her, hands bunched in her shirt at her waist, and you let her lose herself in your skin. When the haze clears and the sound of an angry mob outside becomes the only thing they can hear, you swallow and prepare to part from her. But she’s always had a way of exceeding your expectations – she helps you up, fixes the lapel of your blazer and leads you both downstairs.

Her mouth finds yours again, and her hands hold onto your face, and you can’t help but moan against her tongue, slip your own hands around her waist.

In her seaglass eyes, you see resilience, determination, a million different emotions that can’t be named, but the one thing you’re certain of is that she isn’t going anywhere for now.

And for now, that’s enough.

 

She’s the only one who doesn’t look at you like you are the cause of everything bad in the world. In the first year after the curse is broken, she invites you to dinner and speaks to you like you are a human. You talk about your son, and you make plans with her to see him, and you wait for half a second because you haven’t kissed her in days and you want to ask her if you can, but the words get stuck in your throat.

 

It’s just as well, really, because quicker than you ever could have imagined, she’s turning on you. You try, you really do, and you’re honest – you didn’t kill Archie, there’s no way you could have, because you’d been at home and you’d been in bed touching yourself to the memory of Emma Swan’s hands. You don’t tell her that, of course, and she seems to believe you at first, but then she’s at your door with her parents (those damn idiots) and she’s got an ocean in her eyes when she tells you that you’re incapable of change.

Your heart breaks, and when she forbids you from seeing Henry, your magic bursts out of you, sends her flying backwards and crashing down the path. You disappear, and when you’re safe in your vault, you break down in tears, angry that you’d ever let yourself think that Emma Swan could be anything more than her mother’s daughter.

 

The hurt, the anger, it makes you numb, so when the truth comes out and your name is cleared, you can’t bring yourself to hear Emma’s apologies. She sits on your doorstep for an hour one day, waiting for you to be ready – you watch her from your study but you don’t let her in. You won’t be so weak.

 

You don’t talk to her properly until after your Mother has died. The pain inside you is unexpected, unwelcome, and you want to drink yourself half to death to cope with the empty ache that you feel, but one glass is enough for you to know that drinking won’t work. When Emma Swan shows up on your doorstep this time, you’re too sad to ignore her, and maybe somewhere deep down you realise that she is exactly what you need right now.

 

She’s fire, whiskey, soft. She tastes nothing like Daniel, but you think, in her own way, she tastes better. You tangle your hands in her hair – what else can you do? – and you climb on top of her, hold her close and kiss her hard, let yourself drown in the rush she encourages. Your lipstick rubs off on her jawline and her neck, and there’s never been a prettier sight in the world than the sight of Emma Swan in this moment.

 

You’ve heard good things about sex, about lovers who really pay attention, but you haven’t ever experienced it yourself, so when Emma Swan endeavours to fuck you, you honestly aren’t expecting much. But this is new, this is good, this is _amazing_ , because Emma pays attention to you, fucks her fingers into you just hard enough to be rough and eats you out like you’re the air she breathes. Her tongue is firm and talented, follows your curves and every move you make, draws sounds out of you that didn’t even know you could make. You thrash and moan and bite into the pillow, and you’re desperate for more, desperate for this newfound pleasure, desperate for Emma Swan to stay between your legs forever.

When your orgasm hits, it shatters the earth, and you scream into the room as your back arches off the bed.

She’s smug about it – of course she is. Through blurred vision you crash your mouth to hers, fight back the tears in your eyes as you try to convey everything you’re feeling in this one heated embrace. She seems to understand, smiles when you part and brushes away some hair that sticks to your forehead. It’s single-handedly the kindest thing anyone’s ever done, and it makes your heart ache a little.

 

A tiny part of you is prepared to wake up alone, but you don’t. She’s still here, she stayed, and she looks so beautiful when she’s sleeping. You kiss and lick every inch of her, moan softly against her hipbones and sigh against her clit, smiling when strong hands slip into your hair and her legs part wider to accommodate you. “Fuck me,” she murmurs, her head pressing back into the pillow. “Wanna cum in your mouth.”

“Mm,” you murmur with a sleepy smile, licking the length of her slit and revelling in the way she shudders. “No.”

“N-No?”

“No,” you repeat, crawling back up her body and kissing her hard, letting her taste herself. She doesn’t have time to whimper at the loss of contact, for your hand is sliding down and two strong fingers are pushing into her, parting her in half. Her eyes roll into the back of her head, and she cants her hips in time with your movements.

"Please," she whispers, wrapping her arms around your waist. "I want to feel you."

“Don’t let go,” you murmur, a warning. You curl your fingers then, pull back slightly before thrusting back in, _hard_. She gasps against your mouth, and her fingers dig into your back as she realises your warning was serious, and she'd better hold on.

You continues this move as it draws gasp after gasp out of your lover, until finally you hits that spot deep inside which makes Emma throw her head back and moans unabashedly. You grin wickedly, knowing you’ve struck gold and fully intent on exploiting this weak spot until it _hurts_.

Your next thrust, now steady without losing too much of its exploratory direction, is slightly more forceful than your last. It has the desired effect; Emma whines and bites down on her bottom lip hard. The sight makes you shudder with pleasure, and you scoop her arm under Emma to hold her as you gradually begin to thrust harder, faster, deeper. Emma moans into the room, wraps her legs around your waist and bucks into your teeth, her nails digging into your shoulder blades. The jolts of pain cause you to groan hotly against her ear. "Scratch me," you growl lowly, moving your hand up from around Emma’s back to tug lightly at the ends of her hair. "Tear my skin."

She buries her face in your neck, keening and squealing as she forces her nails deep into your skin and drags them down. Skin comes away, leaves a thin trail of blood and a few droplets on her fingertips. You cry out and push her impossibly tight into the bed with your body; your thrusts never stop, and you fuck her so hard that the bed begins to protest, begins to creak, but it’s worth it, all of it is worth it to hear Emma scream for you.

“I’m gonna cum,” she whines, panting for breath. “I’m gonna cum for you.”

You’ve never wanted anything more.

Suddenly Emma’s skin is white hot and her rib cage is cracking open as a scream rips from her throat and her body goes rigid. “Regina!”

It takes a few seconds of heavy breathing and rapid blinking for the world to re-knit itself, and when it does she wraps you tight in her arms, breath hitching against your neck as your fingers slip out of her tight heat.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she laughs quietly, her voice hoarse. “I’m shaking.”

You smile against her throat, kiss her softly several times there. “Don’t let go,” you murmur, swallowing down the emotion in your throat.

As she hold onto you, you realise that it’s raining outside, and you wonder how long you’ve been here with her. The last time you’d heard rain like that, you’d been in the Enchanted Forest, cold and wet and alone.

Now, lying here with Emma Swan, you’ve never been warmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!  
> @turtledove_51 on Twitter!


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